by Joseph Flynn
“I did,” Ron said, “and I’ll be happy to have your help on your terms.”
Keely Powell smiled.
Tall Wolf saw warmth replace wiseass in Keely’s expression.
These two had a history. He took a step back in his mind as to how he might deal with this woman. At least until the situations in Goldstrike were resolved.
Satisfied with Ron’s enlightened attitude, Keely turned to Tall Wolf.
“You see the conflict of interest Ron has?” she asked.
“Sure. I raised the idea just before you arrived.”
“Good.”
“There’s more,” Ron said.
He told them about his father getting into a tussle with Hale Tibbot, and the reason it had gotten started.
“Your dad’s still alive?” Keely said. “Still up to his old tricks?”
“Not quite so many these days.”
“Still. A father protecting his son’s reputation, maybe his job, possibly provoking some rich chump into throwing the first punch. He’s going to need a close look, too. Right after Clay Steadman, who you’ve just told me admitted he could see doing in this Tibbot jerk if worse came to worse.”
Ron said, “I could see my father putting two into Tibbot’s head. I don’t see him sticking the guy and not leaving a drop of blood behind.” A thought crossed Ron’s mind. “You know, I don’t see Clay doing things that way, either. A bloodless death isn’t what you’d call cinematic.”
Keely wasn’t having it. She said, “We were back in L.A., what would you call investigating your dad and your boss?”
“A big mistake, and a conflict of interest.”
“Right. Same applies way up here.” She turned to John Tall Wolf. “You have any homicide investigations in your background?”
“I do.”
“Would you mind working with me? You may have noticed, though no longer on the job, I’m not the shy and retiring type.”
Tall Wolf replied, “How are you at respecting other people’s ideas?”
“Real good,” Keely said with a smile. “The more great thinkers working on a problem, the easier it is for everybody.”
“We should get along, but I have to keep a hand in on the bombing case, too. What I’m thinking about that now, there’s a really big inconsistency at play here.”
Both former L.A. cops looked like they knew just where the special agent was heading.
Both had the manners not to interrupt.
Tall Wolf said, “I’ve never heard or read of an eco-terrorist doing ecological damage or even threatening to do it. Hitting a natural resource is what a political terrorist would do.”
Seeing his new colleagues nod, he gestured to them to pick up the thread of his logic.
Ron deferred to Keely.
She said to the chief, “Maybe it wasn’t just luck that timer got stuck on three.”
“Just what I was thinking,” Ron said.
John added, “Sure would be nice to recover that thing.”
John Tall Wolf told his new colleagues he needed to catch a few hours sleep before he got back to work. He’d check in with Sergeant Stanley when he woke up to see if they were available. If not, he’d see what he might do on his own.
The chief and his friend, the retired detective, found that reasonable.
Tall Wolf’s sleep had to be postponed, though. The housekeeping staff at his hotel, with the roar of their heavy-duty vacuum cleaners and their intermittent gossip about the affair the staff electrician was having with the hostess of the breakfast seating at the hotel restaurant, made the possibility of getting any rest unlikely.
The housekeepers seemed to think the fact that they were speaking Spanish made it unnecessary for them to keep their voices down. John had learned Spanish from his mother at home and French in school. But most of the guests at the hotel must have been monolingual Anglos, judging by the uninhibited narrative of illicit romance. Both parties were married to other people, of course.
It was only a matter of time, one housekeeper said, before the husband of the hostess showed up at the hotel with his gun. John sighed. Called Sergeant Stanley and told him what he’d overheard. Would have been dereliction of duty not to.
While waiting for the din outside his room to subside, John thought it might be productive to do a bit of research. He’d checked out Ron Ketchum’s background. Clay Steadman had been a public figure for decades. His status as a movie icon, mayor, mega-millionaire and recovering drug addict was well known around the world.
What the special agent didn’t know anything about was the history of the town of Goldstrike. Google enlightened him. Michael Walsh and his wife, Adeline, and their children, Wilhelmine, Rory and Erik, had set off from Chicago in 1849 for the gold fields of California. Michael, a brewer, knew that finding precious metal was an uncertain prospect at best. What he felt was a sure thing, the thousands of other men rushing westward, searching high and low for their fortunes, were bound to need a drink now and then, and probably more often than not.
He would grow prosperous slaking their thirst.
The Walshes never made it to Sutter’s Mill. After a harsh journey west, and an exhausting climb up the eastern slopes of the Sierra Nevada, Adeline Walsh took one look at the lake that captured her heart, and would soon bear her name, and decided she had found Eden on High. She and her children would go no farther.
Michael Walsh was smart enough not to leave his wife and children behind. With the help of the party with which they’d traveled from Saint Louis, they built a cabin and a trading post on the southern shore of Lake Adeline, on the site where the town’s current Municipal Complex sat.
“So you’re the ones that lone brave saw from his canoe,” Tall Wolf murmured.
One other member of the party who’d traveled with the Walshes also stayed behind. A prospector named Timothy Johnson had a canny thought. Why go where all the other sourdoughs were looking for gold? Why not take the chance of searching new territory? Finding gold was a fool’s mission either way. If you had no competitors nearby, however, anything you might find was less likely to be stolen from you.
The Walshes settled in that first winter with enough food, water, beer and firewood that they didn’t need to set foot outside for months. A good thing with all the blizzards that roared through that winter. It was in the midst of one such storm that everyone in the cabin was startled to hear someone bang on their door.
With Michael holding the new Winchester rifle he’d carried west from Chicago and the children huddled in a corner, Adeline threw open the door and jumped aside. Michael almost shot the figure standing in his doorway. It was so covered with snow, he wasn’t certain if it was a large man or a small bear.
Then the visitor shouted, “Don’t shoot! It’s me, Tim Johnson.”
The prospector who’d stayed behind.
Michael allowed him to enter. He’d brought with him a small Indian woman with a solemn face. Adeline slammed the door behind them. The Walshes provided the wayfarers with food, water and warmth. Johnson and his companion slept in front of the fireplace for three nights. Except when eating, drinking — great quantities of Michael’s beer — and sleeping, Johnson could not stop talking of his gratitude to the family.
“We’d have died for certain, had we not seen your cabin,” he told the Walshes.
The Indian woman ate sparingly and said not a word to anyone.
On the fourth day, with their strength and spirits recovered, generously provisioned by the Walshes, and the storm having blown itself out, the visitors were ready to be on their way. Before they left, though, Johnson’s appreciation took tangible form. He left the Walshes a dozen nuggets of gold, ranging in size from a pea to a pear.
The prospector’s last words to the Walshes as he departed were, “The next time you see me I’ll be a rich man.” With a nod to his companion, he whispered. “She’s going to lead me straight to the motherlode.”
But that was the last anyone — who wasn’t Nativ
e American — ever saw of Timothy Johnson. Nonetheless, his legend lived on, despite the fact that no other prospector ever struck it rich in the vicinity of Goldstrike.
Out in the hotel hallway, the last sounds of vacuums and scandalized housekeepers died away. John Tall Wolf closed his laptop and lay down to sleep.
Just as he was drifting off, he mumbled to himself, “Wonder if anyone thought to ask the Indians where the gold is.”
Chapter 9
“I need an Indian,” Sonny Sideris said.
Marjorie Fitzroy added a dollop of mischief to her customary smile.
“Asian, Native American or wooden?”
Not a bad line, she thought, for right off the top of her head.
The hotel guest liked it, too. His blue-green eyes sparkled like a sunlit sea.
The concierge at the Renaissance Hotel wasn’t sure if the guest was in show business, even if he had the looks for it, but she knew for a fact he was the guy who’d asked her for bank references yesterday. Pretty as he was, he wasn’t her type. But he was memorable.
“What I’m looking for,” he said, “is someone from a local tribe. A grandpa, probably. Someone who’s been around forever. Knows every nook and cranny for miles around.”
Marjorie was about to ask if the guest wanted a trail guide, but she caught herself.
“I assume the person you’re looking for also needs to be discreet.”
The guest smiled again and pointed a finger at her. “There you go.”
“Let me see what I can do.”
Sonny watched Marjorie take to the keyboard of her computer the way he’d seen colored guys play jazz piano in New Orleans. Sure, smooth and feeling it deep inside. She knew there was joy in doing anything, if you made it your art.
He liked that.
It was the same way he went about things.
She finished with a flourish and looked up at him.
“The local tribe of Native Americans is the Washoe … The local tribal council has a phone number and a P.O. box number for postal mail … The council president is Herbert Wilkins and he lives in Truckee.”
Marjorie transcribed the information she’d found in Palmer Method cursive on a crisp sheet of hotel stationery. She presented the information to Sonny, along with a map showing how to get to Truckee. Town wasn’t far at all.
Sonny did have a question, though.
“Does Herbert Wilkins sound like an Indian name to you?”
He was surprised when Marjorie’s smile vanished.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
“We don’t have a very happy history with Native Americans in this part of California,” she told him. “I had a history teacher who liked to lecture on things you didn’t find in our textbooks. He said that massacres of the local peoples and holding them in slavery were illegal, but both those things happened and the authorities never punished anybody. At least back in the gold rush days. Native Americans were also forced to speak English and take English names. Maybe that was where Herbert Wilkins got his.”
Sonny nodded. Knowing there might still be hard feelings could make his idea more difficult to pull off, but better he should know what was what than walk into a buzz-saw.
“Thanks, I appreciate the help. I’m going to make a point of telling the hotel manager what a great job you do.”
Marjorie’s smile returned. “Thank you, sir.”
Sonny gave her a wave and left, looking at the information Marjorie had provided.
“What do you want that I can give you, Herbie boy,” he asked himself.
Had to be something, didn’t there?
After all, he was going to ask the Indian for the keys to the local gold mine.
The one nobody had been able to find for more than a hundred and fifty years.
Lots of people thought the idea there was still gold to be found in the area was a myth. Something they read about in the hotel magazine’s list of local attractions. Nothing more than colorful Wild West bullshit. He likely would have felt the same way.
Only he had a twenty-ounce gold nugget in his new safe deposit box that said otherwise.
So if old Timothy Johnson had learned from his squaw where the gold was, why couldn’t he do the same? These Washoe characters had to know. Wasn’t just that one woman back in the old days who knew the secret.
He’d bet on that.
Maybe, though, he should have asked Marjorie for an Indian grandma.
Too late now. If he went back and changed his request, she might get suspicious.
Smart as she was, she could figure things out. He wouldn’t want that.
He’d stick with old Herbie. But if that guy did know where all the gold was, could put his hands on it, what more could Sonny offer him?
The chance to keep breathing seemed like a good place to start.
Ron Ketchum stepped up to Marjorie Fitzroy’s desk at the Renaissance not five minutes after Sonny Sideris had left it.
“Good morning, Marjorie. How are you?”
“In love with life and cashing a paycheck to boot,” she said.
“You’ll own this place before you’re through,” the chief told her.
“I already have several shares of common stock and roll over the dividends.”
Ron smiled. “You have something for me?”
“Yes, I do.”
She handed the chief a sealed envelope. The exchange produced a small metallic clink.
Ron said thanks and stepped over to where Keely Powell stood waiting for him with her suitcase. He led her to an elevator door that stood isolated from a bank of others and was screened from common view by a partition of vibrant plantings.
“Ooh, I like this already,” Keely said. “You’re taking me someplace the common folk don’t get to go.”
Ron told her, “I am, and you’ll need an old-fashioned key to call the elevator.”
He opened the envelope and took out a metal key with a silver fob.
“That says VIP,” Keely said, pointing a finger at the fob.
“A sign of personal respect and thanks. From me to you.”
He keyed the elevator. The doors opened and they stepped inside. There were only two destination buttons to push, lobby and suite. Ron pushed suite. He handed Keely her key.
Keely said, “I couldn’t help but notice, having police training and all, that there’s a second key in that envelope.”
“Glad to see you’re still alert,” Ron said.
“And a relentless interrogator, too. I have to ask the purpose of the second key.”
“You never know when I might need to confer with you.”
“Is that what people call it these days, conferring?”
“If they’re all business like me.”
That earned Ron an elbow to the ribs, but not a hard one.
The doors opened. Keely stepped into the suite, taking in the floor-to-ceiling panoramic view of Lake Adeline and the mountains. She was so mesmerized she left her suitcase behind. Ron rolled the bag into the suite. The elevator doors slid shut behind him.
“You want me to point out all the amenities?” he asked.
Keely turned to him with a smile. “No, the detective in me wants to discover them for myself.” She took a beat and asked, “You don’t have anything going with the attractive older woman downstairs, do you?”
Ron shook his head. “I introduced Sergeant Stanley to Marjorie. They have a very happy relationship. Organized to a T.”
“There’s no one else in your life?”
“No.”
“So we can go on a date?”
“Yes.”
“Or stay right here and have our fun.”
“That’s another possibility.”
Keely stepped up to Ron, pushing her suitcase out of the way.
“I’ll bet you didn’t come to my retirement party because you were with someone then. You didn’t try to get back with your ex now that she’s a big TV star, did you?”
“There was so
meone but not Leilani.”
“Another cop?”
“A game warden.”
Keely smiled. “Close enough. What happened?”
“We both liked basketball and doing our jobs, but that wasn’t enough.” It was Ron’s turn to ask a question. “Did you ever go to Paris?”
Keely shook her head. “I got credit from both the airline and the hotel. It’s just sitting there waiting to be used. I did drink the champagne with friends.”
Ron thought she might kiss him just then, but she turned away. Inspected the suite’s living room. Opened the door to the bedroom and flicked on the lights. Turned back to Ron and waggled her eyebrows.
He followed her, entered the bedroom just as Keely opened the door to the bathroom.
“Wow,” she said quietly.
Then she turned to Ron and began to undress. “This gilded little hideaway has to be Clay Steadman’s doing. What’d he do, hold up the building permit until the hotel agreed to put it in?”
Ron watched as Keely unbuttoned her blouse.
“It was the other way ‘round. The hotel asked Clay if he had any suggestions. He said he had show biz friends and other business partners who visited town and appreciated both comfort and privacy. The suite comes with its own butler.”
Keely was down to her lingerie by now.
“Is his name Jeeves, the butler?”
“Last I heard, Alejandro was his name.”
“That’s cool, too. But he’s not here now. So who’s going to draw my bath?”
Ron attended to that and other duties.
Chapter 10
Doctor Perri Dahlgren’s idea of culture was bacteria growing in a petri dish. The medical examiner of Alta County, called in to do the autopsy of Hale Tibbot, considered herself to be a scientist. Unlike so many boobs in the general population, especially faith-based politicians, she didn’t believe in magical thinking. She lived in the real world.
If a hypothesis couldn’t be proved by the scientific method, it was hogwash.
So she wasn’t amused when Sergeant Casimir Stanley of the Goldstrike PD had told her the chief of police didn’t want to hear that a vampire had been responsible for Tibbot’s death. As if she’d ever say that even in jest. The sergeant had said it was the chief who had been joking.
